


Done

by WritingYay



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingYay/pseuds/WritingYay
Summary: The eternal finality to his tone hurts more than it should. Taron’s never had a break-up this brutal, which should really say something for the way he fell for his tall, stupidly handsome co-star. He fell with atavistic ignorance. He fell in love too quickly to comprehend, until it had hit him one summer’s evening that he genuinely couldn’t picture life without Richard in it. Now, he was living the nightmare reality. His gaze flits back up to the other man, and instead of seeing home, he sees a shell. A shell of belonging.





	Done

When his relationship (if two years of pity-fucking and an unspoken agreement that they were essentially doing each other a favour) with Emily had ended, Taron only let himself wallow for a day before throwing the entirety of his energy into filming for _Rocketman_. To say the break-up was a relief was not something Taron ever let himself dwell on, because that seemed like a massive _fuck you_ to Emily. His friends had swept him up in a barrage of apologetic pints like a hurricane of emotionally-stunted panic, so for about two weeks after becoming a single-man Taron acted like an absolute knobhead.

Relationships aren’t exactly his strongpoint. He’s not great at the whole emotional side of being constantly busy, and his constant need for affection often results in the other person feeling trapped and overwhelmed. It’s something he’s promised to work on, time and time again. Fast promises clogging up slow love. Firecrackers igniting molasses. Two hands clasped tight trying to hold on for dear life onto something slowly slipping into the distance. To protect his shattered experience of love, he distances himself when everything starts to unravel. The end of every futile relationship he’s ever had has been signposted by a choice to give up and stop fighting. That’s why breaking up with Emily- his longest relationship from before 2018- is numb to the touch for about an hour, and then it’s followed by a wave of relief tinged with selfish guilt.

So, it’s actually a surprise that when his relationship with Richard ends, it feels like his entire fucking world has collapsed in plumes of destruction for _months_ afterwards. 

Broken, and raw, and nauseatingly sensitive. Just like everything else in his godforsaken existence.

~

Coming face to face with his ex-boyfriend for the first time after said man becomes a figment of the past, is a special kind of hell that Taron prays he will never have to experience ever again. Even referring to the Scottish heartthrob as anything other than _present, now, mine_ causes a stone to settle in his throat. To switch from viewing Madden as the reason for breathing to some faceless pillar of meaning confined to only the depths of “yeah, I remember vaguely” is hard. It, well- it sucks balls. Huge balls, that belong to the king of the scum of the universe: insecurity. 

He catches a glimpse of wavy chestnut hair marred by obnoxious grey in the throng of the crowd gathered at this bloody charity launch, and very nearly drops his glass of free champagne. The ball of designer clothing and pinched glares peels away in layers of boredom to reveal Richard right in the middle, with his arm around some young thing’s waist and a seemingly carefree grin licking at his lips. Taron clenches his grip tighter around the stem of his Paris-spun flute and forces himself to look away. The only time they’d spoken since ending their promised forever was to sort-out the respectful returning of borrowed possessions. All that had entailed were a few one worded WhatsApp messages and polite nods at front doors. How can three years of exhaustive love suddenly be condensed down into an old hoodie, shower gel and a watch? How is it possible, to literally have a box of meaningless crap to show for the realest relationship ever spewed out from Hollywood?

“Earth to Taron?” Lindy, his agent and on-the-road mother, gently pokes him in the shoulder with her acrylic. Her mouth turns downwards at the stress lines starting to crease down her client’s wrist. “Sweetheart, you’re going to break that champagne flute.”

Taron hums at her concern and forces himself to relax his grip. Only when his fingers loosen does the weight of the glass become apparent, and it nearly falls out of his spasming appendages. 

“Sorry.” He mutters, and transfers it to Lindy’s spare hand when she holds it out expectantly with a sigh. 

“It’s fine, pet- shattering morbidly expensive glassware at a charity funding is exactly the sort of impact you need to be making.” 

Her sarcasm is wildly obvious, even though it’s masking increasing worry. Lindy had been given the full run-down of the break-up after it had happened, although she hadn’t been able to understand much through Taron’s gut-wrenching sobs. Nevertheless, she was a very intelligent lady, so one quick glance into the crowd to spot that bloody chiselled jaw causes her eyes to narrow sadly.

“I’ve, uh… ‘ve not seen ‘im for weeks.” Taron whispers hoarsely under his breath so only the older woman can hear. His gravelly pitch skips out a few letters, but Lindy gets the gist.

“What, not since you returned his stuff?” She asks. “You haven’t talked to him?”

Taron shakes his head and crosses his arms to thumb the suit material covering his ribs. They stick out nowadays, pronounced and mocking, ladder rungs under stretched pale skin. “Wha’ can I say?”

“Let’s not hate each other,” Lindy arches her eyebrows and deposits Taron’s glass on a passing tray without looking in the middle of her sentence. “Would be a start?”

“He has every right to hate me.”

“Perhaps now.” Lindy shrugs, the diamonds at her ears blindingly dazzling under the hot lights. “He cannae’ afford to hold a grudge for life though, sweetheart.”

Taron presses the tip of his tongue against the fragile skin at the roof of his mouth to compose himself into steely logic. There’s no use getting upset over a choice he made, even though that decision has turned out to quite possibly be the most stupid fuckin thing he’s ever done.

“You know he’ll damn well try.”

Lindy laughs at that, and nods ruefully. “The only person I know who’s more stubborn than Richard Madden, is you Taron.”

Contrary to the nauseating tightness coiling in his chest, Taron chuckles at Lindy’s honest observation. It’s probably why their relationship was pure dynamite: two obstinate gits in an intense relationship, fuelled by fire. 

“I can’t believe he’s not my boyfriend anymore.” Taron then suddenly blurts out, his gaze commandeered again by the cosy embrace Richard’s locked in with that blonde. “I fucked it up, I know I did, but-”

“Sweetheart…” Lindy tries to coo but the Welshman flits his glistening eyes to her and she immediately closes her mouth. Her boy needed a friend, not tough love.

“I’m still so fucking in love, Lindy.” He nods, once, twice, before tipping his head back and blowing a gust of exhale towards the ceiling. It’s almost like he’s trying to get the pooling tears back into their ducts, and his obvious struggle is heart-breaking to watch. For Lindy, it was like watching a building exploding whilst knowing someone was inside but being too powerless to stop it from occurring. She sniffs with him, and places a comforting hand on the junction between his neck and collarbone to squeeze. She knows. 

Taron accepts this. Sometimes, words aren’t required to show support. He attempts to swallow the brick lodged in his throat and fails, so excuses himself to the toilets. The cubicle door squeaks behind him, loud in his screaming need for silence. He lets his skull crack back against the cool marble as he stands there against it, melting slowly, for a good few minutes. His mind races at a hundred miles an hour to make sense of his current shitshow of a situation, but he can’t come up with an answer to put his heart back together.

The person staring back at him in the bathroom mirror looks vacant. It’s extremely unsettling, to blink rapidly only to find that the haunted, woeful dullness in his eyes doesn’t shift. He turns the tap off and goes to dry his shaking hands, when the door bangs open. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Taron doesn’t even have to turn around to confirm his suspicion. Tension explodes from the copper piping to clench around his lungs in an unforgiving vice.

“Alright?” Taron projects to the hand-towels, keeping his back to the entrance. A short burst of shocked silence follows, before the grating rumble of a throat being cleared answers him.

“Uh-huh.”

Richard’s got his hands in his pockets when Taron eventually turns. His elbows bow out almost in right-angles as defence; his rigid posture only seems to accentuate how closed-off his expression is.

Taron bites the inside of his lip and regards his ex-boyfriend carefully. The heady stab of want rippling throughout his stomach causes tears to prick behind his eyes. For the last three golden years, he’s loved Richard and been allowed to _have_ him. Now, that familiar tidal wave of encompassing obsession is clouded by an emptiness. To be that in love with somebody and not be able to act on it is the worst form of emotional torture he’s ever gone through.

And that’s saying something.

“Have a nice life.” Richard murmurs as Taron attempts to sidle past him without re-igniting the clawing flames of loss already licking at his nerves. He makes no effort to meet Taron’s questioning gaze, which causes him to stop dead before the door.

“Madds-” Taron tries to plea but then a sucker-punch of realisation knees him between the eyes as he swiftly concludes that he no longer reserves the right to use that nickname. It’s like a huge ACCESS DENIED brand horizontal across his forehead in capitalised humiliation. He stutters over the running commentary screaming in his mind, and corrects his speech. “Richard-”

Richard does an absolutely shite job of pretending he’s not taken aback by Taron’s willing shrug of a lifetime habit. His eyes drag from the tension disfiguring Taron’s splayed fingers to the hard grit of his jaw, before clearing his throat and erasing any visible concern. “What, Taron?”

“Can we at least _try_ to be civil?” His voice sounds unbearably pathetic. 

Richard just regards him silently for a moment, and then he sighs like a deflating balloon. All of the previous regimented tension dissipates from his pores, leaving him exhausted in every possible way. “Civil? If you mean, can a’start treating you like a stranger, I’ll have to say no.”

“Why?” Taron asks, annoyed. The yearn for normality is achingly evident. 

“I loved you for three years.” Richard replies with a blank gaze; his eyelashes beating down in quick succession as his pupils stay firmly fixed on Taron. “You really fuckin’ expect me to suddenly stop?”

Taron knows his expression has suddenly dropped open. He can feel how slack-jawed he’s gone which rips apart his guarded façade. “Well, no, but-” 

Richard silences his desperate stammer by shaking his head and turning away. A noise way too similar to the hitching of steady breath ricochets from the high ceiling. 

“Rich-”

“Let’s get one thing very straight,” the Scotsman demands, and well, it’s poor choice of words but it’s the vicious heat behind it that punches Taron in the stomach. “You broke up with me, okay? It was your choice to end our relationship. So don’t you fucking stand there with your lost child eyes and make me feel guilty for not wanting to hold onto something that _you_ ruined.”

It’s the most communication they’ve graced each other with since the screaming match that signposted the break-up. Yet, it burns.

“An’ a day hasn’t gone by since when I haven’t regretted breaking up with you.” Taron fires back. “You know that.” His fingertips begin to tingle as the blood from his clenched fingers gets cut off.

Richard laughs harshly. “Fuck that.”

“What, you really think this shit is any easier on me?” Taron demands. His accent coarsens at every passing vowel. “You think I don’t hate myself every fucking day for being too much of a coward and messing up the best thing to ever happen to me?”

Richard’s features are what can only be described as _open_. He stands there with those long legs and jagged cheekbones, and regards Taron with blown eyes. A mosaic of emotion swirls in his irises; taut eyelids frozen under the weight of the horror.

“What’s th’bloody point in you telling me that, Taron?” He says, suddenly quiet. “I thought we were done?”

“We are done,” Taron nods pointedly, crumbling inwardly when Richard looks like he’s been slapped. What he really means, is that he’s done hurting the older man. Nothing good can come from poking a dead horse, is what he should follow up with, but he’s got a raging suspicion Richard may actually run at him if he lets those words slip from his mouth. “I just needed you to know that I’m not treating us breaking up like a fuckin’ holiday.”

Richard blinks at him again with those arching lashes, and sighs. “Well.” His tongue darts out to run across the seam of his lip before he decides to pin Taron with a _look_. “That’s that, then.” 

The eternal finality to his tone hurts more than it should. Taron’s never had a break-up this brutal, which should really say something for the way he fell for his tall, stupidly handsome co-star. He fell with atavistic ignorance. He fell in love too quickly to comprehend, until it had hit him one summer’s evening that he genuinely couldn’t picture life without Richard in it. Now, he was living the nightmare reality. His gaze flits back up to the other man, and instead of seeing home, he sees a shell. A shell of belonging.

“I really hope there comes a time when we can be friends.” Taron tells him. Richard wipes a hand across his purple-dabbed eyes and tuts.

“I don’t know what that would look like.”

Taron tilts his head to the side and lets his shoulders fall. “A d-different kind of love.” His voice catches. “A love that is still fierce, and scary, and real, just… just different.”

Richard doesn’t look at all convinced. If anything, he looks impossibly more broken than he did when he walked in. “I think I’d rather never love you again, than try and pretend I don’t love you the same way as I did before.”

Clutching at any possibility of a resolve, Taron splays his hands out and changes tact. “Our relationship was like a wall, and it fell down. I’m jus’ saying, that one day I hope we can rebuild our wall with different materials.”

“Ah, substitutions?” Richard chuckles, dead and emotionless. “Then it will still be a shit wall, Taron. All the _fookin’_ thing will be, is a crappy attempt at building something close to our original structure. Yet, this ‘new’ wall will be made out of grass, and whatever else decays quickly. Are ya’ following my analogy here? New wall on bloody shattered foundations. New wall is a shit comparison to the old wall. New wall will fall down in minutes, because we used whatever shite we could find to hastily build something we weren’t ready for.”

The bitter poison igniting his distaste for Taron’s olive branch punches the same pain as a physical hit. 

“Then we take our _fucking_ time.” Taron hisses, low and assertive. He wants to scream at Richard and shake him by his broad shoulders to get it into his dumb skull that letting him go is a sin he’ll be repenting for eternally. 

“I don’t have the effort.” Richard says, throwing his hands up into the air so they’re parallel with his jaw. “I’m sorry, T, but I don’t have the energy to put myself through more of your games.”

His lips morph into something resembling a grimace, but the redness etching his eye sockets proves different. He’s not the angry arsehole being displayed. He’s a devastated and alone man who purely wants everything to go back to normal; just like Taron.

Yet, whatever was normal is now history. Fuck, Taron should’ve fought _harder_.

“I don’t blame you.” He finally whispers back, hoarse. Richard squeezes his eyes shut to calm the pulsating ache behind them, before opening his vision to drink the form of his ex-boyfriend in one last time.

“Well,” he finds himself nodding in slow, hyperbolic extensions like therapy. “That’s that, then.”

The repetition of those few words carry a sense of doom to them that Taron knows means his question is fully answered. Clearly, Richard doesn’t want to seek a new normal. Can Taron blame him? His mind drifts back to their sun-kissed holidays, their date nights, their lazy mornings wrapped up in each other and their adventures. He very swiftly decides that, no, he doesn’t blame him at all. Those memories burn to the touch. No-one with sanity would want to drag up old scars in order to become something fake. 

Taron raises his eyebrows as an acknowledgment, and offers the older man a parting smile. He manages to successfully pour in all of his remorse to it, so it quickly starts to shake at the edges. Richard’s mirroring sad smile is as equally unstable. Jesus Christ, what absolute messes.

He’d tried, and it wasn’t enough. For Richard’s sake, he had to let the past completely go. Easier said than done, damn right, but if Taron imagined it enough, it offered some solace.

“As I said,” Richard croaks at him, cheekbones shuddering under the weight of deflating pride. “Have a nice life.”

_Without me_.

“Thanks.” Taron grinds his back teeth together and curls his quaking fingers around the door handle. “Back atcha’.” In a split-second of awareness, he pulls back the defensive vulgarity and drags his gaze up to meet Richard’s. Taron stares into those bottomless pools and tells the omniscient blue the truth: “You deserved better.”

His skin unfurls in harsh goosebumps as he slams the bathroom door shut behind him, Richard’s lost and exhausted eyes burned permanently into his vision. An awful feeling of utter dread suffocates his body until he’s heaving through shallow breaths, unable to stop his heart from shrivelling. It is what it is, even though this outcome is fucking hell-fire.

But what can he do? It’s properly over.

Ripped hearts by human touch. The blind destruction of vulnerability. That’s that, then.

Done.

**Author's Note:**

> These last few days have been, for lack of a better term, shit.
> 
> This fic is kinda like a therapy fic for me. Sorry it's so angsty, but like I said, shit times man.


End file.
